Slices of Life
by Laure001
Summary: Modern AU. After his catastrophic love declaration at Hunsford, Darcy's relationship with Elizabeth takes an unexpected turn. (Complete!)
1. Rain

**Editing to add : Dear readers, I have now published two Pride and Prejudice Variations, under the name Laura Moretti! One is called "The Governess" and the other "Do you love me?" Both Elizabeth/Darcy happy endings, of course.**

 **And now, the story... :)**

 **-X-**

It's raining. On the concrete, on the pavement, on the faded tree leaves. The world is grey, orange and gorgeous, puddles of water reflecting the sky, autumn in the city, at its best.

Elizabeth is sitting outside. Cafe patio. Awning. She feels pleasantly warm under her heavy coat. Her hands pleasantly cold around the coffee mug. Random beauty of the universe.

Then she thinks of him.

Darcy, declaring his "love" in Hunsford pub, near the billiard table. Insulting. Passionate. Random, also.

Beautiful.

Strange to think of it this way. Elizabeth didn't before; she was so furious.

But now, looking at the rain and the glittering world (a random moment of grace), yes, it was beautiful, that declaration, in a brutal way.

Maybe she will tell her grandchildren someday, about the haughty, silent man, that she hated so much and who fiercely loved her. A bizarre anecdote, from the past, an unpleasant acquaintance she never saw again.

Suddenly Elizabeth takes her phone.

She looks at the number. (Darcy's cell).

She should write something rational, like thanking him for the information about Wickham. Saying how sorry she is for his sister. Concluding "I still hate your guts though, have a nice life."

But that is not what she writes at all.

His fire. His passion. Those words he said. Spiting, loving words. Elizabeth had never felt that way before; nobody had ever dared speak to her that way before. So she writes:

** It is raining. The world is so peaceful. Difficult to believe our last conversation was not a strange, violent dream. **

 _Send._

She feels a little alien after. That text is so out of left field. So not Elizabeth Bennett, you know, the rational, polite, kind, somewhat sarcastic daughter.

But... It is still raining. The world is on pause.

She does not expect an answer. She gets one though, fifteen minutes later or so.

** Does that mean you would condescend to speak to me? **

She reads it with venom (his). He's such an ass. She feels angry and disappointed. The beauty from the world dissolves. Darcy did not get _it_ , of course. How could he?

Elizabeth leaves the coffee shop. Walking in the rain. To the bus station. Inside the bus it's full and wet. People smelling of rain. Windows blurry. Droplets.

She does not know why she finds the moment beautiful also. In the back of the bus a child is crying. She shivers from the humidity. Cold creeping in. But it is an important moment maybe, a slice of life, splendor, autumn, of another form.

Suddenly she sees the text differently.

Like maybe he's begging.

She shivers, again. Maybe her interpretation is crazy. Maybe the first one (arrogance) was right.

But.

She looks at the phone. Maybe she should answer.


	2. Labyrinth

Five days pass before Elizabeth answers Darcy's text.

Life has begun anew. Normalcy. Pleasant enough.

Elizabeth visits Jacky in the hospital. Jacky is 83 years old, one of Elizabeth's fathers' tenants. Jacky lived all her life in the old, crummy Bennet building, where Elizabeth's dad has not raised the rent for twenty years. Not done any repairs ever; that should even out, he says.

Elizabeth and Jacky laugh a lot in the little hospital room they call the family lounge, on the pneumology floor. About life and death, about the irony of getting lung cancer at 83 when you've never smoked in your life.

Elizabeth leaves, gets into the big metallic elevator, pushes the wrong button, gets out in one of the hospitals' sublevel. When she realizes it, she already has wandered a bit.

It's dark. No windows. Narrow corridors, low ceilings, pipes and containers.

She stops.

The Minotaur Labyrinth. Cosy and warm. Hidden machines humming. Eerie.

Time stops.

Elizabeth leans against the wall. She thinks. Of her own little labyrinth of tepidness and normalcy. She looks at Darcy's text again:

** Does that mean you would condescend to speak to me? **

"Maybe." she texts. Send.

Then she adds, ** I am always in the strangest places when I text you. **

** Where are you now? ** is the almost instantaneous answer.

Elizabeth does not – answer immediately, I mean. She finds her way back to the elevator and then to the bus and she sits and thinks.

What the hell is she doing?

Time passes. Going home. Studying. Leaving her minuscule cosy one room apartment. Climbing the creaking, old wooden stairs, saying hello to Mr. and Mrs. Philips, her father's tenants also, vaguely related to the family.

The main apartment upstairs. Helping her mom. Helping Kitty and Lydia with homework. Laughing with Jane.

Going back to her place. Sleeping.

Walking in the street the next morning, cold, rain, grey (in a good way). Elizabeth loves rain. Puddles opening glittering windows everywhere in the world.

It strikes her.

Maybe Darcy is waiting for her answer. Hoping.

Again, that thought.

 _Passion._

An intensity of feelings that has no place in normal life. This speech of him, in Hunsford pub, unforgivable, but… wild. Something ferocious has shaken her existence. If Elizabeth ignores it, _IT_ will win.

It is her worst fear, she realizes.

She does not want to define _IT_ yet. (Indifference, routine, and yes, normalcy are part of _IT_ , but _IT_ is worse.)

Is Darcy waiting for her answer right now? Looking at his phone? And yes, begging her silently, hoping for her answer?

The idea warms her. She feels powerful. A little sadistic even. But all those things he said, in the semi darkness. About her family, her education, her way of life. He deserves cruelty. Maybe she should never text again. Raising his hopes and dashing them, just for fun.

Then his text appears: ** I told Bingley that Jane still has feelings for him **

Unexpectedly. While Elizabeth is in the bus, thinking of him. Thinking of him thinking of her.

That floors her. So it was not only in her (cruel) imaginary world. Darcy really was waiting. This text is a desperate attempt to get her to answer. Elizabeth feels so guilty, a horrible person, heartless, manipulator, John Keats' Belle Dame sans merci, she answers instantly, hands trembling.

** Thank you. ** Send.

It's not enough. ** Thank you so much. ** she adds. Then she pauses, she wants to add something, she does not know what.

Minutes pass.

** So, are you in a strange place now? As you are texting me. ** (Darcy says.)

** In the bus ** (she answers.)

To regret it immediately. Feeling self-conscious. Poor. Proletarian. ("Your way of life," he said. Such spite.)

Ten minutes pass before he texts again.

** Do you want to get coffee? Later this afternoon? **

Elizabeth looks at her phone for a long time before typing:

** No. **


	3. Pain

**Make sure you did not miss chapter 2 , I posted it yesterday. :)**

 **-xx-**

** Do you want to get coffee? This afternoon? **

** No. **

Silence falls.

-xx-

Early morning. Yellow and charcoal. Streaks of light. Endless disparate roofs, through Elizabeth's tiny window. Like a painting.

Elizabeth drinks coffee on the old, weary, beloved table. (Belonged to her grandmother).

She thinks of lost opportunities.

Coffee burns her tongue. Strong emotions, like pain, unfurling with dawn.

Is he? In pain? Darcy? Because of her? (She would be, in his place. Loving and being rejected and then the texts and being rejected again.) He must hate her. She would.

Walking to the subway. The neighborhood, quirky and hipster, or derelict, depends who's watching. Approaching the subway. Ugly restaurants in the ugly small mall. (O'Tacos. Pizza Quinto. Burger King.) No wonder Darcy despises her.

Then Elizabeth turns a corner, and, again, autumn. Sycamores in the wind, grey pavement and people hurrying in the merciful cold.

She misses him. Darcy. No. She misses that feeling she had, when she first texted him.

-xx-

Noon.

Autumn, sure, but winter is coming fast. Low sky, light brushing the sidewalks. Only half a day has passed, it feels like twilight already. Did she miss it? The opportunity? (Lunch, in a nearby cafe, less than twenty minutes to eat). Did she miss _him_? Was Darcy important, to her, somehow?

No. It will happen to her again. Men crazy about her. Not men, a man. Another man. Love declared with words of burning metal. Upturning her life in a few seconds. Her whole existence shifting in a heartbeat.

Of course it will happen again.

-xx-

Jane is all pink because Bingley is back. He called, he texted. Jane and Bingley had coffee together, they did not do anything, they did not resolve anything, but Jane came back flushed and flustered. "Coffee was great," she explains. "Now the worse is over, and Bingley and I can meet again as… you know. Common and indifferent acquaintances."

Elizabeth laughs.

"Lizzie," Jane breathes.

"Very indifferent indeed. Oh Jane," Elizabeth answers, tenderness swelling in her heart. Jane tries to give her a scathing look, and fails.

-xx-

** If you persist in pretending indifference, do not take me as your confidante. ** (Elizabeth elegantly texts back to Jane, who is going to see the new Star Wars with Bingley as "friends, only friends, totally chaste, nothing ambiguous, I swear".)

 _Confidante_. Take that, Darcy. Is this educated enough for you?

God. He's in her head.

-xx-

Bingley is omnipresent now, hanging out with Jane all the time in the main apartment upstairs. (Mrs. Bennet, over the moon.) Bingley mentions Darcy A LOT. They went to the Opera, apparently, (with Caroline and Louisa and Louisa's husband). They went to the theater (idem). Bingley wants to take Jane to Lucia del Lammermoor. A drama of love and faithfulness and despair. (With Darcy and Caroline and Louisa and Louisa's husband.)

Jane goes.

Jane comes back.

She is so happy.

A kiss in the Opera's stairwell. Bingley stammering apologies. For how he left. Saying he will never leave now. If Jane wants him. If Jane wants him still.

Jane is in tears of joy and disbelief. Elizabeth hugs her, she's in tears too, she tells Jane how she deserves it, deserves everything that is good and fair. She deserves true, fervent love, a life that is genuine and strong.

Mrs. Bennett is now firmly on the moon. Elizabeth flees. Two stairs down, to her place. Tears keep falling. No reason why.

-xx-

Days pass. Before the most awkward indirect conversation ever. Jane is on the phone with Bingley, Elizabeth lounging on the couch. Jane mentions Elizabeth's presence, and puts Bingley on speaker phone.

"Oh, good evening, Elizabeth!" Bingley is saying. "We're in that restaurant – the Italian one – Darcy says hi!" Some muttered sounds. "What? Of course you say 'hi,'" Bingley mumbles. Jane glances at Elizabeth with a bright smile, "Elizabeth says 'hi' too!"

Registering too late her sister's frantic gestures of refusal. Then it gets worse. Jane stammers. "I mean, no she doesn't, I mean, she does not want to, I mean, of course she does, I mean..."

Elizabeth want to dig a hole, crawl in it and die.

-xx-

Elizabeth's place. Night. Wind blowing.

She imagines Darcy. Living in the world, thinking ill of her. She has to do something, anything, to stop that gnawing feeling.

** Jane is so happy, thank you. ** She texts.

Send. Four hours later (four!), she gets:

** Good. **

(Loving and being rejected and then the texts and being rejected again.)

** I am sorry. ** she adds. ** I know you must hate me. **

He answers.

** Hate doesn't even begin to cover it. **


	4. Stew

** I am sorry. ** she adds. ** I know you must hate me. **

He answers.

** Hate doesn't even begin to cover it. **

-xx-

The sky is very blue.

The air is very cold.

The season is tainted.

-xx-

In the main apartment. Mrs. Bennet cooks stew. Talks the whole time, yells at Mary, follows no recipe. Result: quite delicious. Carrots, sweet potatoes and family. Elizabeth is so angry.

With Darcy. How dare he? How can _he_ hate her, after all he said, after all his insults? _She_ should be the one to hate him – she does - furor chokes her almost. He tainted everything. Such a beautiful day, and instead of feeling the joy of it, now she sees the world through his eyes. (Evil Darcy's eyes.)

The Bennett apartment. The place where she grew up, and tonight she can only see the stains on the wallpaper, the creaking floorboard, the general dinginess of it all. Narrow rooms, low ceilings, leaks in the bathroom. Her sisters arguing. Jane trying to oversee their homework. (Lydia and Kitty are teens. Nobody should oversee their homework.)

See? See? That is _Darcy_ speaking.

Not literally, of course. What Darcy said in Hunsford Pub was more elegant, more along the lines of "the deplorable lack of sense and decorum of your younger sisters." And tonight Elizabeth hears his running commentary everywhere. She sets the table – and can only think of the tastelessness of the oil cloth, the banality of the mismatched forks. Her mother incessant gossip. Her father, locked up in his "study", on his computer, ignoring the tragedy of her sisters (except Jane) going nowhere fast. Elizabeth was vaguely aware, of course. Before Darcy stated everything in the most cruel, merciless terms. But now she just wants to obliterate the messenger.

Elizabeth grabs her phone.

** You would despise me today. Having dinner with my vulgar mother, and my loud, rude sisters. In my father's derelict building. **

Send.

She has no idea what she's doing.

The answer comes relatively fast, considering its length.

** At the office. Swimming in money and reducing friends to poverty. Treating everybody with contempt. So, sure. Will spend every minute of my day despising my fellow humans in general and you in particular. Also trying to get some work done in-between. **

His anger radiates. Hers gets worse.

(Yes, yes, the message has subtext and irony. Yes, Darcy is quoting Elizabeth's own words to him. Whatever. She is mad anyway.)

She writes. ** Sorry. Cannot understand your text. Too many complex words. My sordid way of life and the company I keep have reduced my brain to mush. **

Send.

"Jane, would you get a piece of cake to Mrs. Jones downstairs? I made too much," Mrs. Bennett asks.

Ha. There. Take that, Darcy. Cake. Soup. Stew. Pie. Mrs. Bennet always makes more for people in the building. Mrs. Bennett helps sick tenants when they are old and alone. Elizabeth and Jane, too. Like when Elizabeth visited Jacky, at the hospital. Take care of thy neighbor, engraved in their neurons.

So, yeah, fuck thee, Darcy. Charity and love and companionship and warmth. Is that vulgar?

Tears swelling again in Elizabeth's eyes.

"Mom," (She says.) "Could I bring some stew to the Philips? They love your cooking, you know."

That will show _him_.

Darcy answers. ** Can't bother to read your text either. My selfish disdain for the feelings of others, I suppose. Ah well. Now going to bath in the blood of the innocent. **

Lydia yawns and purrs she's tired, why does she need to finish her work, what does grammar is useful for anyway. Elizabeth texts Darcy's back.

** You are still mad, it seems. Good. I am too. See, low class women. They tend to hold grudges. **

Mrs. Bennet: unaware of World War III raging a few feet away. Says yes about the stew, mumbling something about her lack of Tupperware, and soon Elizabeth is carefully going down the building stairs. Narrow steps. Huge bowl of hot stew. Too full. She almost slips. A little sauce gets on the steps. Dangerous.

"Do you know Mr. Bennett doesn't really own the building?" Caroline Bingley said to Darcy, on these very steps, three months ago. A party in the Philips' apartment. Too many people, too small a place, people overflowing in the stairwell. In the living room, Bingley and Jane dancing. Kitty and Lydia laughing. Elizabeth sitting on the stairs, chatting happily with Charlotte.

(Three weeks after, Charlotte slept with that Collins guy and moved north to work with him.)

Anyway. That night. Caroline. Smoking with short, precise gestures. Spouting venom.

"Mr. Bennett's first wife, she left him only the building's usufruct. When he dies, they will all have to decamp from here. They'll lose the rent revenues. So, you know." Caroline inhales the smoke. "I suppose the girls are quite desperate."

The girls are not desperate, Elizabeth thinks, right now, in the present, fighting for stew and equilibrium. Because the girls are gonna work. Yes, Caroline, work. What a concept. Elizabeth is in med school and Jane in business school. It should be the opposite, their friends say. But it's not. Jane is going to be the kindest, gentlest business woman ever. And Elizabeth wants… well.

A life that's worthy.

(At least the Philips are happy with the stew.) (Elizabeth begins to climb back.)

Darcy, that same night. During the party. Tall and handsome in black and dark grey. Looking disgusted with everyone and everything. His gaze following Elizabeth, constantly. Disapproval, she thought, at the time.

Now… well.

And Caroline – of course it makes sense now – how could Elizabeth have been so blind?

Still climbing. Wood cracking under Elizabeth's feet. Darcy saying that the building was a fire hazard. It might very well be. Hateful man.

Phone beeping.

** Elizabeth, ** the text says. ** Please listen to me. Please. I never said you were low class. I never said… **

Elizabeth is so distracted she slips on the wet step and loses her footing and falls.


	5. Fire

** Elizabeth, please listen to me. Please. I never said that you were low class. On the opposite, I expressed, too strongly it seems, how much I admired you, your character, your kindness, your fire. It was a mistake, a huge one; I completely misinterpreted our connection, I misinterpreted… well, everything. But I don't want our last exchanges to degenerate into bitterness and name calling. Please forget my earlier stupid attempts at sarcasm. Please forget everything I ever said or wrote to you, actually. **

** Elizabeth, are you ok? I just received Jane's text. She said you hurt your head, they're rushing you to the ER. Please give me news. **

** Elizabeth, Jane kept me apprised of the situation. I'm thinking of you. **

** Elizabeth, Jane told me you just woke up. How do you feel? **

** Elizabeth, I apologize. I realize now my latest texts could be considered harassment. I am sorry, I was not thinking. I will not contact you again. I wish you the best in life. You deserve it. **

-xx-

Elizabeth is sitting on a chair. White and plastic. The ER waiting room. Jane is here. Her father is here. Darcy is here. Her mother is yelling at someone. The ER lady?

Elizabeth does not know how she got here. (Doesn't remember the car, doesn't remember anything.)

That's not good, right? She should tell her dad.

Darcy is not really here, she realizes. Yes, she should tell her dad she

The world turns black.

-xx-

She wakes up in a hospital's bed.

"Shh," her father says. So much affection in his voice. "Shh, sweetheart, do not move. You're fine. Everything is fine."

"Shh," Darcy says, caressing her brow. "You're fine. Everything is fine."

He is not really here, of course.

-xx-

Consciousness, and fading again. It gets better.

-xx-

One day later. Elizabeth is indeed fine. Eating hospital food, clean hospital sheets, clean pale walls. Being discharged tomorrow, yes, there was a concussion, but the doctors think the risk is minimal now. She will have to come back for checkups.

"I, hum, I texted Darcy about you," Jane says.

Sitting in the grey hospital chair, carrying magazines and sweets. "When I picked up your phone," Jane adds, "I saw you had been texting with Darcy all night, and I thought… Maybe… But…"

Jane pauses. Elizabeth is focusing on her spinach.

"Is something going on between you two?" Jane asks. Elizabeth hesitates. "You don't have to tell me," her sister adds hastily.

Elizabeth decides against the spinach. She puts sugar in her hospital coffee. A lot of sugar. Cause, you know.

"No, nothing is going on. Well, we've been fighting. By text."

"Why?" Jane asks.

Good question.

"You know, he almost came here," Jane explains. "Darcy. To see you, when we were waiting. Then he texted me that no, you would not want that. He changed his mind twice, before finally deciding against it."

Elizabeth cannot answer. So Jane, the sweetest soul on the planet, smoothly changes the conversation.

-xx-

As soon as Jane is gone, Elizabeth grabs her phone.

She reads the texts.

 _** Elizabeth, please listen to me. Please. I never said that you were low class. On the opposite, I expressed, too strongly it seems, how much I admired you, your character, your kindness, your fire. It was a mistake, a huge one; I completely misinterpreted our connection, I misinterpreted… well, everything. But I don't want our last exchanges to degenerate into bitterness and name calling. Please forget my earlier stupid attempts at sarcasm. Please forget everything I ever said or wrote to you, actually. **_

 _** Elizabeth, are you ok? I just received Jane's text. She said you hurt your head, they're rushing you to the ER. Please give me news. **_

 _** Elizabeth, Jane kept me apprised of the situation. I'm thinking of you. **_

 _** Elizabeth, Jane told me you just woke up. How do you feel? **_

 _** Elizabeth, I apologize. I realize now my latest texts could be considered harassment. I am sorry, I was not thinking. I will not contact you again. I wish you the best in life. You deserve it. **_

Elizabeth.

Elizabeth, Elizabeth.

Like an invocation. Or a prayer. She dozes on and off, still holding her phone. Darcy's words dancing in her mind, mingling with his image – at the ER (where he was not), caressing her head (he didn't). When Elizabeth wakes up, he's sitting near the bed. The impression is so strong, for a moment there she almost believes it.

-xx-

One hour later. Her mind is clear. She sweet talks a nurse into getting her more coffee, and much more sugar. They joke around. As soon as the nurse closes the door, Elizabeth types:

** Darcy, **

She stops. She closes her eyes to think.

** Darcy, I am sorry. I am so sorry. Thank you for all your texts. Please consider that I am making an extremely dramatic gesture, like falling on my knees in supplication before you (but in a sophisticated, elegant way. Think, Cleopatra style.) When we texted, you were nothing but nice to me – and I was, well, yikes. And then we fought, and it was my fault. I don't know what came over me. Again, so, so sorry. I hope you can forgive me. **

Send.

And then: ** Yes, I am much better. It was a serious concussion, but I am fine now. Going home tomorrow. One should never slip on stew. It is an important life lesson. See, at least one good thing came out of our relationship: you know now about stew. **

Send.

-xx-

Night falls. Outside it is very cold, you can feel it through the windows. Elizabeth hears people talking in the corridor, visiting hours are over, but nurses and doctors are coming in, complaining about the weather. Elizabeth pictures them, coat and gloves and scarfs. Freezing air creeping in at the hospital's entrances, through the sliding doors.

Someone passes near her room, laughing, before walking away. Hospital night life. Dimmed light, dimmed colors. Muffled conversations, distant machine noises. Her empty cup, smelling of cold coffee.

** I do not know how to answer that. ** Darcy texts.

Then, quickly. Before Elizabeth has the time to get offended. ** Sorry, I realize the tone of my previous message could be misunderstood. I mean, I do not know if you want me to answer, or if your messages were a polite, amiable way to end our back and forth. Which would be very like you; God knows I have misunderstood your amiability before. If it is indeed the case, I hope you can forgive this. I just want to say that I am so happy you are well. **

Not what Elizabeth was hoping for. She has no idea what she was hoping for.

Time passes.

It could stop there. Their back and forth, as he says.

She keeps her phone in hand. She listens to the hospital muffled whispers. The building is a half sleeping beast. She is safe and protected, in the hands of others, floating. Her mind drifts. (Her hand, still holding the phone.)

 _Elizabeth._

 _Elizabeth, Elizabeth._

She wants to play again, she realizes. Whatever existed that night, when he wrote those texts (Elizabeth,) whatever was there, she wants to invoke it again.

"Your kindness, your fire," he wrote.

Very well. Let's play with fire.

-xx-

She doesn't want to think when she types:

** Does that mean you want me to stop texting you? **

Send.

God. She's a bitch.

-xx-

His answer arrives less than five seconds later.

** No. **

Then: ** No. It does not mean that at all. **


	6. Rules

** Does that mean you want me to stop texting you? **

His answer arrives less than five seconds later.

** No. ** Then: ** No. It does not mean that at all. **

Silence falls.

-xx-

To be exact, awkwardness falls. Elizabeth waits fifteen minutes, to see if Darcy will send something else. He doesn't.

** Will we be able to communicate in a civilized manner? ** she writes. ** Or are we going to fight to the death with words and emojis as dueling weapons? **

** We can keep to safe subjects. Like food, and the weather. We cannot fight about the weather. **

** Oh, try me. :) **

** You make me laugh, ** is Darcy's strange, non sequitur answer.

That's it. It stops here, the exchange, at least that night, in the hospital, and Elizabeth is disappointed again. It lacks the fire – or the subtext – she is looking for.

-xx-

Back home.

Elizabeth must stay put for a week. Her parents want her upstairs, on the living room couch, where they can watch her. But three hours of the Bennett "it's a jungle out there" family life is her limit. Elizabeth flees to her apartment. Only Jane allowed, twice a day.

Now, bliss.

Lying on the sofa, alone. Lights off.

It's winter now, not officially, but night falls at five and the day is so grey – deep and dark. The town is draped in – Elizabeth doesn't have the words – but it's like November started and they all stepped into a different universe.

She tells Darcy. Through text.

Then she feels silly. What the hell is she sending him? Little bouts of would be poetry - about colors and seasons? Why? What will he think of her? That she's trying to seduce him by… weird romantic ramblings? She wants to erase the message, of course she cannot, so she sends, too quickly:

** You said we should talk about the weather, so see, I did. I thought, we keep to one text a day, the risk of fighting will be very limited. **

She regrets it instantly. Wanting to undermine her previous vaguely romantic seriousness, and now – gone too far the other way. She seems cold, uninterested. Worse, as if she just set up a limit of one message a day – a strange decree, for no valid reason.

Fuck. Fuck. Panic. She is already messing this up. Darcy does not answer. (Of course he doesn't. He must be mortally offended.)

Then he does. A good three hours later.

** One text a day? So that is the rule? That you have already broken, may I add. Am I breaking it by answering now? Because, is it one text per day, period, or is it one text per person and per day? And if you answer this, does that mean I won't be allowed to answer you back? Or shall we decide texts about the rules don't count, because they are meta texts, so to say? So many Very Important Questions. **

Ok. That makes _her_ laugh. She wonders, though, about the three hours delay. Maybe Darcy has a life, you know, between her texts. But also, maybe he _was_ offended. Wanted to end the conversation. And then changed his mind. Decided to play along, as his only chance.

Maybe. Or, you know, he was buying soap. Or working. But now that panic has subsided, Elizabeth likes to entertain the idea she has, indeed, the power to hurt him still. Like that day, in the bus. She imagines she is playing with his heart from afar, from the comfort of her archaic sofa.

One text a day. Maybe he is taking whatever crumbs he can get.

She takes her time answering (payback for the three hours wait). Her tone playful. Messages about the "rules" do not count, she decides. One message by _person_ and by day. She has already written hers (with the poetic ramblings), so Darcy still gets one.

** Very well. Then know that I liked your description earlier, ** Darcy answers. ** My view right now at Pemberley is kind of similar. My office is on the fourth floor; I see sky, roofs, walls. Not anything pretty: mostly old houses and run-down warehouses. A mess of red tiles, stones, zinc sheets. All draped in winter, as you said. **

She cannot answer, of course. She used her text.

-xx-

The next day. Darcy texts about an abandoned subway station. He has an architect friend who got him in – for an art project of some sort. ** As you like weird places, I thought I would describe this one ** he begins. Elizabeth is fascinated. The text is very, very long. It is cheating, she thinks. But she has no intention to complain.

She thanks him, sincerely, then adds a funny description of the daily activities of her forced vacation. Well, she thinks the description is funny. She hopes it is. It's just, he said she was clever (in the Hunsford Pub billiard room), and she is trying to prove him right. She tries to be sweet, too, well, "sweet" is not the right word, "sweet" stinks of misogyny now, but she tries to be - gentle? friendly? considerate?

He said she was kind, so, you know.

-xx-

The next day she's the one who texts (about a book) and he answers. The conversation is short. Relatively.

-xx-

The next day he's the one who messages first. About a warehouse being rehabilitated on Pemberley's grounds. There's a picture. Magnificent, as industrial ruins can be.

It goes on for ten more days. (Elizabeth is back at school, back at work.) Texts about places. Colors. Books. Nothing of their lives. Of their work. Of their friends. Nothing intimate.

Elizabeth knows they're playing a game, she would just like to know which one.

-xx-

Then:

** Elizabeth, I am at the cafe just next to your place – from where I sit, I can see the door of your building. I had a work meeting with one of Bingley's friends; he just left. I know I already offered to buy you coffee a few weeks ago and you refused, but it feels strange to find myself right here and not mention it to you. If you are at home, you could come meet me for a minute – it would be very short, I must leave soon. I will not pay for your beverage, I swear. I will refrain from any gallantry. I will do what I do best: be obnoxious and aloof. **

Twenty minutes pass before Elizabeth notices the text, so she rushes down the building's stairs (maybe Darcy left already.) Then she stops at the main door, texts that she is on her way, and walks to the cafe with studied nonchalance.

Darcy is still there.

-xx-

It's a meeting of strangers.

The last time Elizabeth saw him, he was in his hipster black/grey clothes, it was night. The pub. Dark wood, dark green. Darcy's pacing the carpet, furor in his eyes, being more insulting by the minute, turning to her, declaring, "If I had flattered you, you would be ripping my clothes off right now," "but I hate lying, I am not a hypocrite, Elizabeth, like everybody is around you – pretending to be blind to your problems to stay in your good graces."

God. He was awful. And seeing him right now, in the flesh, everything comes back to her.

Maybe everything comes back to him too, because he's very pale when she enters the cafe. The pub. Dark wood, dark green. Elizabeth, standing near the billiard table, eyes shining, "I have every reason in the world to despise you," "I don't think you are capable of showing even a modicum of charm, Darcy, or even a twinge of – I don't know – basic politeness – but even if you had – I would still have spit in your face. Metaphorically, of course. Contrary to you, I do have manners."

How can they ever come back from this?

In the cafe, right now, Elizabeth walks towards him – he stands up immediately – she stops near the small table – they look at each other in silence. Yes, he is a stranger, she thinks, very handsome, white shirt, jeans – but – she does not know this man.

Everything is on neutral: his face, his gaze, his voice. They exchange banalities, 'How are you," "How is your family," "how are your sisters," then he has to leave. Elizabeth does not even have the time to sit down, he's already fled.

This is the end, she thinks. She will not get another text tomorrow.

-xx-

She does.

** It was strange to see you yesterday, ** he writes. ** But I am glad we met. It brings our virtual exchanges into reality. I had not seen you for so long, for all I knew, you could have died that night on the stairs, and Jane would be texting people every day, pretending that you were still alive, protecting your friends from the pain of knowing your untimely demise. **

** Oh, that would be very much like her! ** Elizabeth answers, almost instantly. (So, so relieved.) ** I see you know Jane very well now. She is so much at Bingley's, I think you talk to her more than I do. **

Silence. (Of course.) Elizabeth hesitates, then breaks the rules by writing a second message:

** I want to ask, though. In your texts, you are funny and very creative – like you just were with your "Jane impersonating me" story. But when we met yesterday, you were… stone-faced. You know, all Darcy's patented icy formality. Not that I was much better, I am sure. **

He answers:

** Maybe I am shy. **

So they've both broken the rules now.


	7. Mist

On Thursday, Elizabeth tells Jane everything. Really everything. Including her evil thoughts, about having power over Darcy's heart.

-xx-

It's so cold. Every morning, winter's white mist hanging above the river, brushing the concrete, the subway steps, the moving cars.

Every morning Elizabeth wakes up with a strange warmth in her belly.

** Maybe I'm shy, ** Darcy wrote.

He wrote it to her, just for her. Like a gift. Like a secret.

-xx-

Thursday.

"… Oh but Jane, see, it was so awful, that night - in Hunsford pub. The things he said – the things I said, " Elizabeth explains. Tries to explains. The whole situation. It's such a mess.

(Their favorite cafe. Hot tea. The town beige and brown and cold around the Bennet sisters.)

"I told him – I told him that even if he was the last man in the world, I wouldn't – you know."

"Lizzie!" Jane cries, horrified.

"Well, I was pretty drunk!" Elizabeth protests. "Maybe he was too."

Oh. _Oh._

 _Maybe Darcy was drunk, too._

Elizabeth remembers now. That night, Bingley, Darcy and Richard (Darcy's cousin) doing shots at the bar. Richard's idea, of course. Darcy looking in Elizabeth's direction. Hesitating. Then asking for another shot. Pounding it. Glancing at her again. Another hesitation. Another shot.

And then...

He was drunk. Which is not an excuse, of course. Except Elizabeth is using that same excuse for her behavior, so.

-xx-

This warmth in her belly, Elizabeth carries it everywhere. To school. To work. In the subway. She smiles at people. Well, she always did, but - you know - more. Christmas draws near. In the park, near her work, one of those huge inflatable castles for children. These things are often ugly, but not this one, this one is an elaborate work of art, with a Russian feel, bright, deep, rich colors, the house of Baba Yaga. A place of secrets and wonders. Something that doesn't fit but is beautiful anyway.

(This is how Darcy makes Elizabeth feel. Ok, maybe not Darcy per se, but his presence in her life. His texts, once a day, every day.)

You know – the strangeness, the improbability, the potential of it all.

-xx-

Saturday.

The Philips' apartment: a mess by day, a palace by night. All lights switched off, candles everywhere. Elizabeth and Jane have thrown their parties there for years - when the Philips go to the country to visit family, they rent the place to the Bennet girls, off the books, for the evening. Sixty a night. Jane, Elizabeth and Charlotte used to split the cost; now Charlotte is gone, and of course Lydia and Kitty invite all their friends and do not pay a dime. But hey, still a pretty good deal.

Saturday, new party.

Thrown by Jane. Because she is happy.

Darcy and Elizabeth will meet there, of course. For the first time since they began texting – if you don't count that short, cold café encounter.

-xx-

"I should not be surprised, really," Jane says, on Thursday. With a beautiful, tender smile. "You are so witty – so wonderful, Lizzie. Of course Darcy would fall for you."

"It's not possible," Elizabeth blurts. (See, that is the fear. At the bottom of it all.)

Jane, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

Elizabeth has always put Darcy's "love" between quotation marks. "Jane, come on. How can he 'love' me – like he said he did – after what, a few weeks' acquaintance? We met less than a dozen times!" Elizabeth shakes her head. "'Love.' That is ridiculous."

-xx-

Saturday. The party. Very dark (candles only), very loud. Music screaming. A lot of alcohol. People dancing in the living room, quite drunk already. Near the red sofa, Caroline, smoking and sneering. Jane smiling and talking to Bingley's friends. People flooding the stairwell, sitting on the steps, drinking beer and smoking pot. Richard mixing cocktails in the kitchen.

They said hello. Darcy and Elizabeth. When Darcy entered with the Bingley group. Just hello. It was polite.

Then, Elizabeth dancing and laughing (with other people.) Darcy, near the sofa, talking to Caroline. Or to Jane. Or to Bingley. Only to people he knows. Purposely not watching Elizabeth. Well, Elizabeth thinks he is purposely not watching her. (Maybe she's making it all up.)

Richard comes from the kitchen carrying tequila-champagne concoctions. Then he dances and flirts with Elizabeth - just a little. Elizabeth laughs again. Thinking Darcy's eyes are on her. (Maybe she's imagining things.)

Another guy, flirting. Is Darcy still watching her? Elizabeth flees (the guy, Darcy, the world.) She goes as deep as she can in the semi darkness. The main bedroom, full of coats, bags, women redoing their make-up, kids playing video-games. Now Elizabeth could not be farther from Darcy if she tried. The whole apartment between them.

She sits on the bed. Women chatting around her. The warmth in her stomach has turned to acid.

-xx-

Thursday.

"I was sending him texts. Leading him on – just to refuse him again. Well, not on purpose, I mean, mostly, it just happened, but still - I am - I am a monster."

"That is not true," Jane says. "Lizzie, you are one of the best persons I know."

Taking Jane's hand. An affectionate squeeze. "Except I cannot believe you, dearest. It is your duty to say so. You're my eldest sister. You're, like, paid to be on my side."

"What? Where is my money?" Jane says. "I never got any money. Is there a lot of money?"

"And then, I insulted Darcy – all night – before I fell down the stairs…"

"I think we should get back to the money issue. How much money are we really talking about ?"

"Hey! I am supposed to be the funny one!" Elizabeth protests. "You got the beauty and the brains, and Bingley - you got all the Bs, Jane. You have to leave me something."

Jane smiles happily - like she does when anyone mentions her boyfriend. Then she gets serious again. "Very well. You led Darcy on a few weeks ago, and it was very wrong of you, Lizzie. But what about now?"

"What?"

Jane takes a new sip of tea. "Are you still leading him on?"

-xx-

Saturday. The party. Elizabeth, in the bedroom. Sitting on coats. Two women, chatting about lipstick. She takes her phone.

** The rules say one text a day, ** she writes. ** But we can have a conversation of more than one sentence. **

Send.

Her hands shake a little. She walks out of the bedroom and leans against the wall of the narrow, dark corridor. Times like these, she wishes she smoked.

And suddenly Darcy is right here.

(Like he teleported or something.) He leans against the wall too, not too far from her. There's like, three feet between them.

The place is very dark.

"So what shall we talk about?" he asks.

Elizabeth gives him her biggest smile – really, it's been a long, long time since she felt like this. Happy. Butterflies. A little light headed.

Darcy becomes very still.

"You choose the topic," she says.


	8. Tequila

**Sorry about the hiatus everyone! I'm back on track. :)**

Elizabeth gives Darcy her biggest smile – really, it's been a long, long time since she felt like this. Happy. Butterflies. A little light headed.

Darcy becomes very still.

"You choose the topic," she says.

He nods. "Very well." Pause. "They are talking about fears," he continues. "Over there, in the kitchen. Bingley is asking everyone what their biggest fear is – it's a drinking game, but I'm afraid I did not pay attention to details. It involves tequila."

"So what is your biggest fear?" Elizabeth asks.

Darcy has to think for a moment. "Mediocrity. What's yours?"

"The same," she realizes.

\- xx -

Thursday. In the café, before the party.

"Jane, come on. How can Darcy 'love' me – like he said he did – after what, a few weeks' acquaintance? We met less than a dozen times! 'Love.' That is ridiculous."

Jane is taken aback. "You met him as often as I met Bingley. Does Bingley not love me?"

"What – no - of course - of course he does," Elizabeth stammers. "But it - it's not - when I mean love, I mean - something deep -"

\- xx -

Saturday. The party.

« Ah, » Elizabeth says to Darcy, in the corridor. Still smiling. "But you see, I do not think your definition of mediocrity is identical to mine."

Darcy looks at her – and at her smile – for a little too long. Then he smiles back. "And pray, why would you think that?"

"Well," Elizabeth starts, "when I mean mediocrity, I mean mediocrity of feelings. Mediocre experiences, mediocre life. I want – true friendship, true love, true… relationships with people. And to be involved in things – jobs, hobbies, that are – well. Not mediocre."

"Yes," he answers, "this is how I see it too."

Silence. Smiles. Elizabeth loves this – the corridor, the dark, the quiet intensity.

"But." she adds, with a theatrical move of the head, signaling a possible fight. She stops there, eyes shining with amusement, the threat hanging between them.

"But," he says, "You think I am a snob. And that I judge people on the way they look, or on their – social class."

"I might have said something along those lines once," she whispers, a little ashamed of herself. (Hunsford Pub. She was yelling.) (God.) "I know you better now."

"Do you?"

Elizabeth wants to keep arguing – that she knows he is still a snob, though a nicer one than she thought – but it is so pleasant, that moment – that silence, that look in his eyes - that she doesn't – she just wants to stay here, floating.

\- xx -

Thursday. Jane.

"What Bingley and I have is not deep?"

Oh God.

\- xx -

The party.

In the kitchen. Later. A rather small room, brightly lit. Twelve people, maybe more. Yelling: "Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!"

Jane pounds the tequila-champagne shot. (Oh God, Elizabeth thinks.) That face Jane makes after. Then it's Bingley's turn. "Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!" Richard and ten other people are yelling.

Not clear know Elizabeth ended here (with Darcy leaning against the fridge, next to her. Very close to her.) The party is made of disjointed moments.

Bingley drinks. That face he makes.

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" Richard (and the others) yells – he is speaking to Bingley and Jane, of course.

Darcy turns to Elizabeth and kisses her.

\- xx -

The party.

Later. (Very, very late, now.)

Elizabeth is dancing. Most of the candles have died by now. Blinking early Christmas lights, set up by Jane, in a corner. Darcy, nowhere to be seen.

Elizabeth wonders if it happened or not. The kiss. (Oh, yes, it happened.) But it got lost in the shuffle. Bingley kissed Jane and everyone clapped and cheered, nobody saw them (Darcy and Elizabeth).

His lips barely touching hers, lingering for – a second, maybe.

Richard chose Elizabeth for the next round of shots. "Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!" She threw back one. Then she drank a lot of water and some coffee – she could not afford to get drunk tonight, at first, she had Lydia and Kitty to watch (upstairs now, after much protest) (her father locked them in), also, Elizabeth doesn't want to look like she cannot behave herself. In front of, hum, people. You know – people. Who might take an interest.

She wonders what text she will write tomorrow morning. She should write first, right? After that kiss.

Did it really happen? (It did.)

\- xx -

The party. Even later.

Darcy has reappeared, near the table (disaster area,) serving himself some juice. In a plastic glass. It is so dark. People making out everywhere, in the corners, on the couches.

Elizabeth's heart is pounding.

She walks to him. She smiles. "Do you want to dance?"

"No," he says. He looks around with a haughty, disgusted look. "Not here."

Elizabeth freezes. Darcy sees it. He freezes too.

Elizabeth smiles again – it's very forced. Then she sort of bows – in a strange old-fashioned way. "Have a great night then," she says, and walks away.

Her throat stings, like she wants to cry. Because it's happening again. Darcy tainting everything. Now (again) she sees the world through his eyes: the apartment, a war zone. Wine spilled everywhere. Dirty plastic cups on the carpet. Stains. (She and Jane will have to clean everything tomorrow.) Drunk people making out (and doing more elsewhere, certainly), she thought it was cute, but now – God, she hates him – she is almost in the kitchen when Darcy grabs her wrist.

"You misinterpreted what I said."

She turns to face him. She forces a smile again. He is still holding his wrist.

"I…" she starts. He waits for her to continue. "Jane and I have rented this apartment for years," she explains. "Yes, the decoration is ugly. Yes, the Philips are poor. But we love them, we love _it_. Jane and I, we spend all day decorating. We have wonderful, cherished memories here."

"I see." Still holding her wrist. "My wording – no - my tone – was unfortunate. But see – for me, this place, this building…" he sighs. "It's where you fell down the stairs. It's the place where people stared at me when I arrived with Bingley, the first time, and everyone began to talk about how rich I was. The Pemberley guy. Loaded. And it's still… here. That kind of talk. How rich Bingley is, how lucky Jane is to have 'landed' him. It's still floating around. You know that."

"Yes."

He has not let go of her wrist.

"You are right," she says. "I misinterpreted."

\- xx -

Very early the next morning - everybody's gone, Elizabeth tries to catch a few hours of sleep before the big clean-up.

His text.

** I cannot say I enjoy the Philips's taste in interior design, ** he writes. ** But I will try to see the place through your eyes. **


	9. Christmas

**I posted another chapter yesterday. Don't miss it!**

Monday.

Winter is dreary and all Elizabeth can feel is hope.

Sitting outside. Cafe patio. Awning. Where she sent her first text to Darcy, one month and a half ago. Same place, same chair.

At the time, rain, grey, autumn. In the bus, the air thick with humidity. Now, it's dry, colder, grayer. The sycamores have lost their leaves.

Coffee, hot in her cold hands. She texts:

** About seeing things in a different light. There is a winter fair here, in the square. A very small 'big wheel' and four tiny stands clustered near the world's ugliest supermarket. One half dead Christmas tinsel. The waffle guy has a gorgeous view on the subway steps. Pathetic or cute, you choose. **

** Have you ever been in Köln? ** Darcy starts, before describing the wonders of Christmas markets in Germany.

Elizabeth stares at her phone for a while. Darcy's description, it calls for a "we could go there one day".

She could write it. He could write it. But it doesn't get written.

\- xx -

Thursday.

It's raining on Pemberley and everywhere else in the city. Darcy wonders how the rain looks from Elizabeth's tiny window, in her tiny studio.

The rain is a problem. The warehouse work has to be paused. The inauguration is set in April, so there's still time, but you know how construction goes.

People come in the office soaked and laughing, having run the last steps of the way. Soaking the floor (recovered wood). Laughing about it near the coffee machine.

** Elizabeth, ** Darcy writes.

Then he gets interrupted. A hundred times that day. Because of the rain, the workers' lunch hall has been flooded and Darcy arranges for the guys to eat in the upstairs cafeteria, with all the hipsters and their coworking and their startups. Not the first time Darcy tries to get the two crowds to socialize. Two ends of the spectrum, his father's generation and his. It didn't work before, it doesn't work today either. The workers scoff at the quinoa and the spinach salad, but they eat it anyway, and joke about getting real food afterwards.

** Elizabeth, ** is still written on Darcy's phone.

He is sure she likes the rain.

** Elizabeth, **

His fingers. They hesitate.

When the text is finally sent, it's mundane. About the weather. About the workshops' guys being more snobbish than the hipsters. About them (the workshops' guys) being arrogant and haughty in the cafeteria. (Darcy chooses the words on purpose). Feeling superior to those upper middle-class youngsters who did not do an honest day's work in their lives. (The workers' interpretation, certainly not Darcy's. He's seen the 'youngsters' work 20 hours a day and burn out, one after the other.)

Social paradoxes; Darcy knows Elizabeth will love it. They discuss it for a while - a dozen texts at least - (breaking the rules!). Discussing the infinite nuances of social class pride and prejudice.

But the point is, for five hours or so, the text was only ** Elizabeth, **

It could have become so much more. The text could have been anything. Darcy could have written anything.

\- xx -

Friday.

Elizabeth is jumpy. In her belly, the warmth, still. But sometimes it burns.

Like she's waiting for more. Like she's scared.

\- xx -

Monday. (Again.)

Christmas Eve. A wonderful evening with Georgiana, just the two of them, serene and affectionate and Darcy's desperate. He has to see her. (Elizabeth.) To prove that it's real, that it's really happening.

He spends half Christmas dinner being grateful that Georgiana is well, after Wickham. And she is, she is content – her eyes full of warmth and joy - nothing Darcy loves more than his sister's smiles – except – you know. The other half of the meal is spent on trying silently to devise a way to see Elizabeth again.

Finally, he writes (while Georgiana is happily transferring her contacts to her shiny new phone):

** Hey, I'll be near that same café tomorrow morning, around 10 – the place where we already met. Dropping Bingley's Christmas present. Then I've got to run - Pemberley Christmas work lunch – but I will have five minutes, if you want to come down for an expresso. Same caveats than last time. Will not pay for your drink, will be aloof and obnoxious, etc. **

Send.

It's a lie. Well half a lie, like last time. The Bingley thing is made up – Darcy can find a way to turn it into truth. Christmas work lunch at Pemberley is real. Georgiana organized it for the international exchange students on the third floor. The meal begins at one; Darcy could stay much longer in Elizabeth's company, but if he does, then it's a date and she will say no. Or there is a good chance she will say no. Or there is still a chance she will say no. (He doesn't know.) Five minutes between two things is casual.

Of course: Christmas morning. Elizabeth will prefer to sleep in. And if she finds out it's a lie, after all he said in Hunsford Pub, about "being committed to the truth," then – God – if he could just erase that whole day. Wipe it out from history books.

His phone beeps. Elizabeth.

** An Obnoxious Christmas morning expresso! That I will pay for! Irresistible. I'm so there. 😊 **

** Christmas is never obnoxious. But I will be, ** Darcy answers.

His heart. Beating fast.

\- xx -

Tuesday.

Christmas morning. Very, very cold. The sky very, very blue.

Netherfield building. A bewildered half-naked Bingley at the door. Darcy hands him a magnum of champagne tied with a red ribbon. Jane's voice in the deepness of the apartment, "Who is it, honey?"

"Darcy's being weird!" Bingley answers.

"Oh! Merry Christmas, Fitzwilliam!" Jane says, and Darcy runs away before Jane Bennett feels it's only polite to rise to greet him, improvise a gift and cook him breakfast.

\- xx -

10 am. The cafe. So damn cold. Elizabeth approaches, her steps dancing, huge smile dancing (on her lips,) woolen hat, woolen scarf, her skin pink (because of the cold.) Darcy, standing near a small table on the heated patio – heating process, non-efficient.

"Merry Christmas!" Elizabeth says. Her smile getting bigger.

"Merry Christmas!" he answers – smiling too – casual, keep it casual, but – God. He adds. "How am I supposed to be obnoxious if you greet me like this?"

"Oh, you have to try," Elizabeth says joyfully. "You promised!"

"I'll need time to rally."

"How was your Christmas? I mean, yesterday?"

"Georgiana and I were locked in our ivory tower, guarded by armed mercenaries, with orders to shoot – to keep the common people out. I gave my sister blood diamonds and she gave me, huh…"

"The keys to a small country?"

"Yes. What about your Christmas?"

"It was a mess," Elizabeth says, very amused. "The noise level was through the roof; Lydia and my mom were complaining the whole time – for totally different reasons – but it was – it was great. We gave my dad a new computer. He was so happy – genuinely happy."

"You love your dad."

"I do."

Silence. Darcy panics. "Ah, well, thank you for meeting me – sadly, I have to run…"

"What? Wait! We did not get our Obnoxious Christmas expressos." Elizabeth glances inside. "Can you still give me, like, two minutes?"

He can. Inside, near the counter, Elizabeth jokes with the guy. Ten seconds after they get their coffees, "It's Christmas!" the man says, and he adds whipped cream in both their cups – whipped cream from a can – a super cheap supermarket first price can – Elizabeth turns to Darcy, all smiles and mirth and rosy cheeks and challenge and whispers.

"Oh, come on! You have to say something. Or at least, glare! It's from a can! It's cow's milk!" Her hand on her heart, theatrically. "It's – gasp – non-organic!"

** I love you, ** he writes, in the afternoon, hours later, sitting in his office. Then he deletes the text quickly.


	10. Fog

**I've changed the rating to T, not for this chapter, but for the story in general. :)**

January.

Every morning she goes out and she thinks of him. They're sumptuous, January mornings, suspended in the cold. Fog everywhere. People breathing it in.

Darcy's everywhere, too. When Elizabeth wakes up. When she tries not to slip on the sidewalk. When two men walk, carrying pizza boxes, one of them does slip (thin layer of ice), he almost lets the pizza go, they laugh.

It smells of pizza and snow.

Darcy's there when she comes back at night, too. (Not really.)

\- xx -

He goes out every morning and he thinks of her.

\- xx -

They keep texting. One text per person and per day. Sometimes more – exceptions. They are rare.

They see each other – brief encounters – for "five minutes" between Darcy's "meetings," at the same café. The Christmas café. The Obnoxious Expresso café. _Their café_ , she secretly thinks.

Darcy's always the one who initiates things. He writes, always the same text, or almost. He'll be in the neighborhood. He won't have much time. He will be haughty and obnoxious. (The smiley's implied.) He asks if she can meet him, she always says yes – when she's home – she generally is – maybe he memorized her schedule.

She walks across the street to the café with a huge smile, always, he's waiting for her, always, the way his expression changes when he sees her - when he sees her smiling - it's - as beautiful as a January morning.

She wants winter to last forever.

\- xx -

"You're not obnoxious enough," she whispers, at the café counter, sipping her usual expresso.

"I'm doing my best," he answers. "Shall I insult the waiter for you?"

"Maybe you can just snub him."

"I am," Darcy explains. "I am snubbing everybody here, but silently, in my soul, so they don't know."

"Convenient."

"I agree."

"Do you snub me too?" Elizabeth asks (with that smile). "In your soul? Do you secretly despise me?"

"Obviously. That is why we're meeting here – so often. So I can disapprove of you."

\- xx -

Five minutes. Twice a week.

Except those five minutes sometimes last ten. Or fifteen. Or twenty. Once they stay for a good half an hour, conversing in a low voice in the corner of the deserted café, about - nothing. Fog on the other side of the window. Then Darcy seems to remember something – he finds a pretext and leaves, rather brutally.

\- xx -

January, still.

Some mornings Elizabeth wonders. About the strangeness of it all. They're both adults, both interested. (He is, right?)

Some mornings, she's scared. It's such a miracle. That they're talking at all, after everything – after Hunsford Pub, after their mutual insults, after what she said about Wickham. (How she was wrong, wrong, WRONG.)

Yes, it's a miracle there's any hope at all.

\- xx -

"We must be breaking some world's record," Elizabeth says to Jane. "It's been, what, weeks? Months?"

"Not at all," says Jane, smiling. "Some love stories take years. And Darcy's worth it."

(Jane and Darcy are friends. Jane sees him at Bingley's, all the time. Very frustrating.)

"Well I have nothing against taking it slow," Elizabeth protests, "but years would be pushing it."

\- xx -

She seems so sure, when she's talking to Jane. Like they're a given (she and Darcy.) But the truth is, Elizabeth is not that certain. I mean, she knows what she feels, but – sometimes she gets a little crazy. His texts, they are friendly, right?

 _Friendly._

\- xx -

"Oh come on," Jane says, laughing, before giving her sister's hand a tender squeeze. "Friendly? You are being crazy."

"I am, right?" Elizabeth laughs.

\- xx -

Darcy leaves for a work trip in Sweden. January melts into February, and now the sun is up, shining. February is generally grey and gloomy here, the month where everything's drowning and depression rates go sky high – but it's a blue sky this year.

They still text. Internationally. Valentine's day comes and goes. Darcy's text that morning includes a picture – the Swedish royal gardens – beautiful but nothing special. She sends a picture too – a silver glimmer on the little park near her work. Then she spends hours analyzing everything.

Yep.

She's going crazy.

\- xx -

Darcy comes back. The next day, the very next morning, he "has a meeting." "Near her place." "In the neighborhood." "Won't have much time." "Five minutes." "Will be haughty and obnoxious."

His plane landed, like, at 10pm the day before.

They meet. Elizabeth walks to the café with the same, huge smile, but then she's nervous. Darcy is too. Blame the weather. The fog has lifted, time stopped in the heart of winter but now it started again, the sun speaks of urgency and things happening. Elizabeth stammers when she jokes. He is – yes, definitely tense.

\- xx -

Something's got to give.

\- xx -

Saturday. Edward and Madeline Gardiner come for lunch.

Edward is Elizabeth's uncle, but he's 28, her mother's much younger half-brother. Madeline - she has one of those artistic/feminist Instagram(s); Edward is a social warrior, the nice, efficient kind, with dreadlocks. The Gardiner Foundation is doing well, Edward's explaining, sitting at the Bennett's kitchen table. Elizabeth's mother, pretending to listen, actually yelling at Lydia. Mary's trying to play, but the piano needs tuning. Kitty's complaining loudly about school. Edward doesn't care, he knows he's talking to Elizabeth and Jane anyway. Madeline looks around with her usual amused, philosophical smile.

Elizabeth wonders. What Darcy would do, or think, if he was here right now. Interesting conversation. Constant interruptions. Strident voices, delicious cooking smells. Elizabeth's used to it, she can focus anywhere, but Darcy couldn't.

\- xx -

The Gardiner Foundation is moving, Edward and Madeline take Elizabeth to visit the new place – the potential new place. Saturday afternoon, sun shining. One of those blue collar suburbs. It's a huge private center, where Edward wants to settle, there were factories here, once upon a time, now it's a mix of old workshops and super modern-ecological-self-sustainable-whatever buildings. Students lodgings, hipster coworkings, offices for start-ups – they're cheap – that's where Edward wants to go. An all organic cafeteria where people from offices buildings around come to eat – the cafeteria's not cheap – at all – there are lofts to hire – incredibly expensive – but the price of the student's lodgings is also very low, Elizabeth realizes - fourth floor is management floor, a Mrs. Reynolds is giving them the tour, and it's only when she begins to talk about "Mr. Darcy's father" that something clicks in Elizabeth's mind.

** Hey ** she texts, instantly. ** I know we already texted today, sorry – but – guess what – I just realized - I think I'm in Pemberley. **


	11. Pemberley

**Editing to add: I received plenty of very supportive comments about this story, and they make me so happy. But don't forget that if you are not registered or logged in, I cannot answer you! So to all the "guests" who left me absolutely lovely messages I cannot reply to, thank you so much. :)**

Fourth floor is management floor, a Mrs. Reynolds is giving them the tour, and it's only when she begins to talk about "Mr. Darcy's father" that something clicks in Elizabeth's mind.

** Hey ** she texts, instantly. ** I know we already texted today, sorry – but – guess what – I just realized - I think I'm in Pemberley. **

\- xx -

No answer. The tour continues, Mrs. Reynolds is pleasant, trendy glasses and kind eyes. Pride in her voice – for Pemberley, for what they've accomplished – they enter Darcy's office. "Mr. Darcy is not here right now," Mrs. Reynolds explains, "but see - the view is spectacular."

A suite of rooms. Space and light, wood and metal. Gigantic windows, overlooking… well, Pemberley. It's a mess. Decrepit, abandoned factories. Old sturdy workshops (where the workers live.) Transformed warehouses, wooden terraces, solar energy panels (where the hipsters live.) Construction work in between, renovation going on – yep, a mess. Mrs. Reynolds is explaining what the work is about – a conference center – Elizabeth is hardly listening. Darcy's table, here, near the wall of books. The window on his left – that's his view.

One his first texts, ages ago:

** I see sky, roofs, walls. Not anything pretty: mostly old houses and run-down warehouses. A mess of red tiles, stones, zinc sheets. All draped in winter, as you said. **.

He wrote it here, in times of yore, when she wasn't – where she did not care for him that much. ** My office is on the fourth floor, ** he said, that day, yes, that's where he sits, when he texts her. He is thinking about her here. The office is like him, Elizabeth thinks, an extension of him – cold first, hard, geometric lines of metal and wood, but luminous. With books. Space. Depth. Suddenly she's missing him – the impression is strong, even brutal, she wants him here, she wants to feel him, hear his voice – Edward and Madeline are chatting happily with Mrs. Reynolds – those two, making friends everywhere they go. Their superpower, that they use professionally with great success, for the sake of good.

Elizabeth is antsy. Looks at her phone again.

A text. Darcy. ** I'll be back in 10 minutes. Don't you dare leave. **

** Oh, really? How would you retaliate? ** she answers, before realizing the message is 11 minutes old. Darcy enters the room. Elizabeth turns very red.

(For no good reason. She's just following the tour. Mrs. Reynolds invited them here. But still, Elizabeth feels like she has overstepped, like she's walked into Darcy's most intimate self. Like she's treading on sacred ground.)

Does he know? Maybe he can read her mind.

Maybe he does, because he looks right at her. At Elizabeth, standing by the window, cheeks burning. He is kind of red, too.

A pause.

Then Darcy greets Edward and Madeline and there's introductions and context and enthusiastic "this is such a beautiful place" and "have you been offered some coffee" and "have you seen the common rooms on the second floor" and appropriate friendly business talk on both parts. Soon they are on the second floor – Darcy leads the way now, explaining how everything works, Mrs. Reynolds seems surprised. Elizabeth follows, staying apart, listening. Edward is so clever, Madeline too. Their conversation – Elizabeth glories in every expression, every sentence – at last, some relations for whom there is no need to blush. The tour continues, terraces, a winter garden, aquariums, Edwards falls instantly in love – he adores fishes. Mrs. Reynolds is talking about the "please borrow art" club, Darcy is at Elizabeth's side, whispering:

"Mrs. Reynolds will handle things. Can I show you the construction site?"

Elizabeth nods, tells Edward and Madeline she will be back, Mrs. Reynolds promises to feed them (organic) cake, and three minutes later, Darcy and Elizabeth are outside, alone.

(With, you know, dozens of workers.)

Still, it feels like they are alone. Standing near one of the secondary entrances, under the sun.

It's hot, for February. People shouting orders. Machines rolling. Dust flowing around. The smell of hot metal.

Silence.

"I, hum, do you like what you've seen?" Darcy asks. "Do you approve of Pemberley?"

"Yes," she whispers. "Yes, very much."

Dialogue of the century. They both feel it – the awkwardness.

She looks at the construction mess. "The people in the workshops," Elizabeth asks. "And the coworking regulars. Don't they object? I mean, the noise…"

"They object loudly. But everyone's rent has been lowered drastically to make up for the nuisances."

"Ah." Elizabeth smiles. "Yes, I'm sure that helps."

Another silence. "When my father died," Darcy starts. Elizabeth looks at him, waiting. Darcy talks slowly. "He made me swear. On his deathbed, in the hospital – I thought this kind of scenes only happened in movies, but no, it happened to me. He took my hand and he made me swear, that when I inherited the land, I would not evict 'the guys.'"

Darcy pauses and looks southward. "He meant, the workshops' workers. Even if the businesses were failing, even if they could not pay, I had to keep them on. And he made me swear not to sell. Any part of the property. Ever."

Elizabeth is still watching him. Still listening.

Darcy has a bitter laugh. "I should never have agreed. It was a nightmare."

Silence, again. Many thoughts, in Elizabeth's mind. Darcy never mentioned a mother. Caroline shared some gossip, months ago, when Elizabeth could not care less, now she wished she had listened better. Mrs. Darcy left them, Fitzwilliam and Georgiana, when they were little – they never saw her again – that's what Elizabeth remembers, so she has a terrible thought – terribly selfish, terribly egotistical. That maybe, their mother's abandonment, that is the reason why Darcy is still… why he still cares for Elizabeth now. (Because he does, right? Please. Please God.) Maybe that is why he cannot stand to let Elizabeth go – he cannot bear another woman leaving him – maybe – and you know, Elizabeth is fine with it, totally fine – please do not get over your trauma, Fitzwilliam Darcy, not before we're together, at least.

The silence grows. "How did you do it?" Elizabeth asks. "The property taxes alone…"

"I broke my promise. I had to sell. One third of the land, to pay the bills and get the project going. It was the only way to save the rest."

Elizabeth nods. They walk, leisurely, under the February sun. Huge stacks of wood planks. Hot tar. Darcy explains everything, how the only way to keep the workshops was to make one part of Pemberley pay for the other half – so he went for an extremely modern concept – and when it worked, he expanded on the idea – the super expensive offices paying for the student lodgings, the hipster cafeteria for the workers hall, etc. "We reached equilibrium now," he explains. "The new conference center", he adds, with a nod to the construction site. "With the green roofs and the sustainable architecture and the trendy wellness center, it should give us financial freedom."

"You did it," she says, smiling. She stops, she has to look at him, she feels – so proud. Of him.

He stops too. He whispers. "I did."

Silence is deafening. They are facing each other. He's going to kiss her – she feels he should – she feels he might. Instead they begin to walk again.

There is an alternate universe where they are together, right now – where they are walking in the exact same way, under the winter light, but his hand is around her waist – if she had said yes, in Hunsford Pub. If she had thought, "well, this guy's a jerk, but damn he's hot, let's go fuck in the back room," and then… days would have passed, they would have gotten to know each other, she would have grown to like him, he would have told her all about Wickham. Elizabeth would know her way around Pemberley now, Mrs. Reynolds would be a friend, all these people in the halls, Elizabeth would know their names – it seems so real, this other world, that Elizabeth almost feels it, the weight of his hand on her waist, she sees their looks, their tender gestures.

In the real world, this one, she turns to him and smile – he is watching her - "I admire you so much," she says, he seems taken aback – and so very moved – Madeline and Edward and Mrs. Reynolds are approaching, they walk in their direction across the courtyard, chatting happily; it seems Madeline and Mrs. Reynolds are both from around here, born in the same suburb, they talk of unions and strikes, bustling streets and huge factories – once upon a time – when fairies, mythical creatures and utopias walked the earth – another time, another world, gone now.


	12. Casual

A party. That same afternoon, at Pemberley, on the third floor. A networking event – so, mostly students, taking advantage of the free booze. Darcy asks Edward and Madeline (and Elizabeth) to stay, he wants to introduce the Gardiners to – someone; Elizabeth feels kind of shy, no reason why.

She lets the three of them be professional. She walks around, she listens. Enthusiastic people. Ideas and ideals. Concepts, projects – she knows that most of what she hears will never happen – but – she loves it anyway. Darcy reappears at her side around 5; he asks if he can introduce her to his sister – Elizabeth says yes, smiling, she feels self-conscious, no reason why again, Georgiana is beautiful, shy, and oh so young.

The idea that Wickham – God.

\- xx -

7 pm. A completely different party.

\- xx -

On the fifth floor. ("I did not even know there was a fifth floor," Elizabeth says, "It's a well-kept secret," Darcy answers.)

Darcy and Georgiana's apartment. A private improvised event, Edward, Madeline and Elizabeth are the guests, Bingley and Jane happily joined. Somehow Caroline Bingley and her sister Louisa and Louisa's boyfriend materialized there too – and Richard Fitzwilliam, Darcy's cousin, whom Elizabeth had not seen since Hunsford Pub.

(The pub. Months ago. Richard, handing Darcy vodka shots. Sending him to Elizabeth – to the slaughter.)

Richard lives here in Pemberley. "The rent is symbolic," he explains, pouring himself a large glass of very, very expensive wine. "Gotta love nepotism." A glance in Darcy's direction (across the room talking to Madeline). "Sooo," Richard adds, looking at Elizabeth, "you're dating my cousin now?"

"No," Elizabeth answers. Richard looks at her with amusement. She blushes. "I mean, I don't know."

Richard smiles and sips. Elizabeth drinks too, and then – everything begins to flow – she doesn't have the right word for it, just – the sun is so low now, golden light, flooding through the windows – music – Georgiana is playing – low waves of happy conversations, Bingley laughing, looking at Jane just _that_ way – a subdued joy in the room – then it's 10, Edward and Madeline leave, the other guests scatter around the room, coffee tables, conversations, glasses.

Darcy and Elizabeth find themselves sitting on the stairs. (It's a duplex.) Alone. Out of view.

The others' voices flow on and off, like the tide. Elizabeth has settled halfway down the steps – or hallway up. Darcy is sitting, literally, at her feet.

The night, hopeful and slow.

They talk about Georgiana – about sisters. About what Elizabeth heard at the networking event this afternoon.

"They are all so enthusiastic and - I am skeptical, of course," she states. "A part of me is cynical, like my dad. You know what his favorite sentence is? 'For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn.'"

Darcy smiles. "I think I would like your father."

"He is extremely clever, and I love him, but…" Elizabeth sips her (third) glass of wine. "If he had been listening to all these idealist kids – and yes I realize I am not older than them – my father would only have thought of all the ways they were going to fail. He would have pulled statistics..."

"Statistics are depressing," Darcy says. "I know them well."

"But I don't want to live in a world of cynicism," Elizabeth whispers. "I'd rather hang out with people who try, who – believe in tiny practical pieces of utopias – like Edward - than be with the people who laugh at them from the bleachers."

Darcy nods. "Good decision."

"Still," she adds, smiling, "there is a sarcastic Elizabeth somewhere, living in the recesses of my soul. I'm not sure I like her."

Darcy is silent for a while. "My father was a harsh man," he explains, at last. "Very difficult to please."

It's night now. Drizzling outside.

"But still you are trying," Elizabeth comments, in a low voice. "To please him even now, beyond the grave."

Darcy's smile turns a little bitter. "You know what," he declares, after a new sip of wine, "I'm glad he died early." Elizabeth looks with horror and Darcy adds, his voice perfectly calm, "His coldness, his - authoritarianism – he would have destroyed Georgiana. She was his perfect little girl, so he loved her. But growing up – she would not have been perfect – and if my father had witnessed the whole Wickham thing…" Darcy shivers. "One mistake, and he would… annihilate people."

Elizabeth's horror grows.

"Good thing I grew up in boarding school," Darcy concludes. "It was very strict, but – better."

Silence falls. Elizabeth wants to hold him close, to cherish him. To tell him that – humans are amazing - what they have gone through, both Darcy's children, and still here they are, comparatively unscathed – then she realizes she can tell him, so she does – Darcy listens silently, Elizabeth feels that her voice is betraying her, that he will hear the – everything in her tone – she can pinpoint the exact moment when Darcy begins to feel self-conscious – he tries to change the conversation. He gets help. Caroline, at the bottom of the stairs. Champagne flute. Unsteady hand. Glaring at them both.

"Are you flirting?" she asks.

Darcy answers with perfect calm. "As a matter of fact we're not."

"Then why are you in hiding?" Caroline continues. "You are the host. You should come join the others, Fitzwilliam."

"I should," he says. And doesn't move.

Only Elizabeth's eyes are laughing – the rest of her, perfectly still.

"You are a little red, Elizabeth," Caroline says. "Too much to drink?"

"The wine was so good," Elizabeth answers politely. "I may have overindulged a little. Or," she realizes, "it might be the sun."

"Yes, we were outside for quite a while," Darcy confirms.

"Sunburnt in February," Caroline says contemptuously, as if it was, somehow, proof of Elizabeth's low breeding. "Be careful, Eliza, or your skin will be all brown and wrinkled by 40."

"That would be tragic," Darcy comments, his voice still perfectly neutral. "Such a beautiful skin."

Elizabeth laughs. "This must be the strangest compliment I ever got. But I appreciate it netherveless."

"Well, dear Elizabeth," Darcy answers, his voice still amazingly steady – but Elizabeth thinks he is a little red too now – "I apologize, I am quite drunk. My compliments will be better sober."

"I look forward to hearing them," Elizabeth says, in the same serious, formal voice.

"See, Caroline," Darcy adds, still perfectly calm. " _Now_ we're flirting."

Caroline turns on her heels and leaves.

\- xx -

Silence.

Elizabeth sips her wine. "That was almost cruel."

Darcy is looking everywhere but at her. "Yes. Well. Caroline can be somewhat difficult."

"No, really?" is what Elizabeth wants to say, but she doesn't – Sarcastic Elizabeth is not welcome in this conversation. Sarcastic Elizabeth judged Darcy on a whim and found him wanting, Sarcastic Elizabeth believed Wickham when he said Georgiana was a stuck-up bitch. Sarcastic Elizabeth thought she was so clever and got everything wrong. "Caroline is fragile, and all the men in her life are being stolen by a Bennett sister," that would be the right analysis – but for obvious reasons Elizabeth cannot utter it aloud. Darcy is not expecting an answer, he stands up brusquely – still not looking at her – going to replenish their drinks.

Taking his time near the buffet. Talking to Georgiana. Elizabeth fiddles with her phone.

A text. Darcy.

** I would ask Mrs. Reynolds to lock you up in my office, of course. **

It takes Elizabeth a few seconds before realizing what it's about. Their last texts:

 _** Hey. I know we already texted today, sorry – but – guess what – I just realized - I think I'm in Pemberley. **_

 _** I'll be back in 10 minutes. Don't you dare leave. **_

** _Oh, really? How would you retaliate? **_

 _** I would ask Mrs. Reynolds to lock you up in my office, of course._ **

Elizabeth smiles. Hesitates. Looks at Darcy, on the other side of the room.

Well, fuck.

** Really? Would you be locked in with me? Whatever would we do then? **

Send.

Her heart is beating a little too fast. Georgiana goes to the piano again. She plays beautifully, and she is but sixteen. Elizabeth thinks of Mary at home, trying her best on their sad, cheap, half broken piano. Of Lydia, who would need private tutoring but will never get it. Georgiana has everything – one would think she lives a charmed life, protected from the world by her doting brother – but – but as exasperating as Elizabeth's parents are, they are, well, alive – and – Jane and Elizabeth, and their sisters really, they have always been _free_ – an invaluable gift - Elizabeth looks at Georgiana now and see a scared young girl, locked by her own fears. Could she help? Be a sort of older sister, get Georgiana out of her (prison) shell – if, you know, _if_ – Elizabeth phone beeps.

** I am all astonishment, Miss Bennett. How could you interpret my last text in such a way? If we were both locked inside my office, I would offer you tea and show you my sociology books. **

Damn it. So many dirty, unladylike answers she could write, but she won't – laughing silently, she tries to catch Darcy's eye, but he ignores her, he stays near the piano, looking – quite smug.

** I apologize, sir. Be assured that I will only discuss serious topics from now on. Say, what do you think of Nietzsche? **

Nietzsche can wait. Darcy comes back to the stairs, eyes shining, carrying two glasses of wine, but Jane joins them – then Bingley – and then everybody else – except Caroline, who has "another more important _soirée_ to go to," she vanishes, into thin air, without even saying good-bye to Georgiana – they are a merry party, there on the steps. Louisa and her boyfriend, surprisingly nice in Caroline's absence. Richard hands vodka shots around, again, and then it's 5 am and a workday (or a school day,) Elizabeth really has to sleep, even for one hour – everyone leaves – coats and good-byes and laughs – Jane, all smiles, surrounded by people she loves – Bingley, looking at Jane like – he still cannot believe his luck – Darcy's hand on Elizabeth's shoulder, he says, in a whisper:

"Can I see you tomorrow?"

"Sure. Yes. Yes. Absolutely."

"We have to talk. Tomorrow night? The same café? 7 pm?"

"The Lambton Café?" Elizabeth nods. "7 pm."

\- xx –

All day she is in a haze. Tired (and hungover.) The rain is back. Patented February grey. Fear is back too. And anticipation. Joy. Elizabeth's stomach hurts, she is so nervous.

7 pm. The Lambton café (the Christmas café, the Obnoxious Expresso Café, their café.) Totally different in the evenings, when they meet in the day the place is calm, almost deserted. 7 pm is happy hour, now it's packed, lower orange lights, different waiters. People in suits, from the nearby offices, drinking. Standing (no place to seat.) Darcy, on a faraway corner, near a high table. Standing also. He looks very nervous. Elizabeth's hands, shaking.

"Hey," she says, when she gets to him.

"Yes," he answers. He still has his coat. His eyes on her, as soon as she entered the place. He doesn't smile. "I mean. Sorry. Good evening."

"Good evening," she answers, with a strained laugh, Darcy immediately begins :

"Elizabeth, I know you are not – you are very independent, and I would not want to – so I have a proposition for you, if you – we could start – something, the both of us, if you are interested – casual, of course – no exclusivity required, it doesn't have to be a big deal..."

Elizabeth is petrified. She feels sick. All the things she waited for – what she hoped – this is not – she tries to reason herself, she knows her reaction is too strong, she did not sleep last night, and the alcohol, too – she's not that good a comedian, she knows what's painted on her face now, she stares at the table, not at him, don't look at him, suddenly she can't breathe, she can't stay, she turns on her heels and begins to walk away, like Caroline the other night, except two seconds later Darcy is at her side, taking her hands in his.

"Elizabeth, talk to me. Why – why are you reacting like this? Look at me."

She doesn't – she cannot – but – her hands in his. He leads her back to the table, and they – they stay there, holding hands. Everything is melting. Elizabeth's shock, her disappointment - swept away – what Darcy said doesn't matter, his words are contradicted by his touch, by his warmth – by the look in his eyes, when at last she does raise hers – but – she's a reasonable being – she can have a reasonable conversation – "I am sorry," she begins, "I was not thinking clearly." Darcy is so close, listening so intently, her heart is beating so fast, she's never letting his hands go, not even in case of apocalypse, "I was just thrown by the 'no 'exclusivity' concept," she explains (around them crowd and conversations and noise and beer and nobody cares,) "I am – I am kind of traditional – so you would be the only one to…"

"Forget it, then, forget it," he whispers hurriedly, "I just thought you… Forget the 'no exclusivity' talk, I – just imagined you would want to…" He stops talking, because maybe the idea strikes him that if they are negotiating the clauses, then it means they agree on the nature of the deal – they are pushed closer to the wall, a new group just came in, singing something (some sport event going on) - Darcy and Elizabeth, still holding hands, Darcy leans down and kisses her, soft at first, she kisses him back, the crowd pushes harder, he catches her waist to steady her, her hands are on his shoulders now, she pulls him nearer, she smiles, and that smile he cannot resist, everything becomes a blur – of kisses - (his hands, his breath, his coat,) "Hey, I haven't seen you yet, right? Do you guys want any beer?" the waiter is saying, after clawing his way through the crowd, "No," Darcy answers, then "yes", when he realizes that "no" would mean they have to leave, Elizabeth laughs in his arms and when the waiter disappears Darcy goes instantly back to kissing her, it becomes a little wild, (God Elizabeth loves his coat), his hands on her face, on the back of her neck – Darcy's head hits the wall when Elizabeth is pushed by a new wave of people, "I am so sorry," she whispers, "no no," he says, on the same tone, "by all means, push me against the wall," she laughs again and again he cannot resist, so - he's lost – later outside in the street – Darcy paid for the beers they did not touch - people are smoking and joking on the sidewalk, nestling their drinks, Darcy and Elizabeth, still kissing in the shadows, "So, casual, right?" Elizabeth says - ironically, because it seems anything but, "Yes, yes, sure, casual, yes," Darcy whispers, kissing her again - with passion - he's not really listening anyway.


	13. Up In The Air

_**Be careful, I posted chapter 12 yesterday, don't miss it**_ ** _._**

 **A very sweet anon asked me for another chapter today because it was Mother's Day in England and they were losing an hour of sun… So here is the chapter, as a gift to her!**

 **Also, next chapter will be the last. (T** **o my great regret,** **I love writing that story.)**

" _Casual_. I hate that word."

Elizabeth and Jane. Their favorite café, near the park. Sun, leaves, cars, busy buses. Elizabeth thinks about Pemberley. She and Darcy, walking near the construction site, under February sun. Hope, joy. Dust and possibilities.

But it is March already.

"I don't think he means it," Jane answers, stirring her tea with serene, elegant gestures. " _Casual_ doesn't seem in Darcy's character. He seems calm, but it's all pretense, fire beneath the surface."

Elizabeth silently agrees.

"Have you, hum… Have you... Already... You know?" Jane asks.

"Oh yes."

\- X -

Two days ago. The Lambton Café. Outside. Kisses in the night. People drinking beer. "My place is just around the corner," Elizabeth whispers.

They go. The stairs, it's dark, wood creaking, everything is narrow and old, Darcy's holding her hand, "be careful," he whispers, "you already fell once."

She has to stop and kiss him again. He's so passionate then – sweeping her in his arms, between the third and the fourth floor – they forget everything for a while. Then someone somewhere opens a door – one of the tenants maybe – the building feels full of life and spies, they laugh, hurry to Elizabeth's apartment.

Her studio. The ceiling is low, everything seems small. Darcy does not belong here. He has to crouch to approach the bed – because of the beams. Elizabeth feels awkward – then forgets everything – because yes, it's dark, and yes, the bed is narrow and small, but they are both on it – soon both naked – she can hardly see him, they haven't turned on the lights – no time to lose – the moment feels unreal, all sensations and skin. Clumsy. A mess.

Perfect.

Afterwards, they try to fall asleep, the bed is really too small, they laugh in the dark, and again, perfect.

\- X -

"But then – it was morning – the Bennett Saturday family breakfast, I wanted to invite him upstairs, and I couldn't."

"Why?" Jane answers. "You know mom would have been…"

"Oh, I know. But… _casual_ , you know? You don't invite your _casual_ date to breakfast with your parents, on the first day."

Jane shakes her head. "Lizzie, you are making this more difficult that it has to be."

Elizabeth sighs. "And then, of course, came the Lydia-Wickham shenanigans."

\- X -

Morning. Darcy, drinking coffee in the minuscule studio. Standing silently, near the minuscule kitchen. Elizabeth is still in bed, drinking coffee too – he brought her a mug. (Perfect, I told you.) Morning light, through the old, tiny window. Dust shimmering in the sun.

Perfect, again.

Then Elizabeth has to say she's leaving – for family breakfast. Everything turns awkward. Silence, banalities. Everything is tense.

\- X -

Elizabeth walks Darcy downstairs, and Wickham is HERE. Romancing Lydia on the first floor, near that apartment that is being redone; Lydia stole the keys somehow. She is ushering Wickham inside as Elizabeth and Darcy go down so Elizabeth clocks him. (Wickham, not Darcy.)

One blow, right there in the face. Wickham falls down the stairs. (Yes, the stairs again.) He breaks his nose. Lydia shrieks. Darcy is standing here – so cold. Then it becomes a huge thing, because Mrs. Bennett chooses that moment to come back with groceries, Elizabeth is yelling, Wickham is holding his bloody nose and threatening to call the cops so Darcy shoves him against the wall, in a pretty violent gesture, and then he shoves him again and Elizabeth's dad comes down the stairs.

"Lydia is underage. _We_ are calling the police," Mr. Bennett says, with perfect calm.

And then he does.

\- X -

Darcy's gone.

\- X -

To Sweden. Another sudden work trip, connected to the first one. A Swedish firm wants a partnership, to "recreate the Pemberley model." Sweden is Politically Correct Fairyland (so Edward says), so, helping students and start-ups, the idea that parts of the complex pay for the other parts, yep, very Swedish.

Darcy's negotiating. He's gone for two weeks.

\- X -

Elizabeth is going slightly mad. You know, like the song.

\- X -

They have not seen each other since their first night. Since their morning awkwardness, since Wickham. Elizabeth is drowning in a sea of what ifs. What if Darcy's been disgusted by the Lydia/Wickham thing? By the entire Bennett family, screaming around him? Or – the opposite… Elizabeth's dad's pressing charges – Edward's helping him, he knows a good lawyer - while Darcy did _not_ press charges, after Georgiana – so Elizabeth wonders – is Darcy feeling weird about it all? Fearing that Georgiana might be exposed? Or – feeling guilty, because if he had gone to the police, then Wickham could not have preyed on other innocent girls?

Or, what if - what if it's none of the above - what if it's true, their relationship is _casual_ , and Darcy just doesn't care?

\- X -

No texts.

First day, nothing. (He's between planes, Elizabeth reasons.) The following day, nothing.

Third day. Elizabeth texts. Something light and fun. With a view of the town canal through a restaurant's window, blackbirds and water, sun warming the beige facades on the other side. A rusty metal bridge, traffic lights.

** I was not sure our arrangement was still on, ** Darcy answers, like, three seconds later. The text comes with a beautiful and very modern view of Stockholm. The sky, icy blue.

Back to two texts a day. Elizabeth misses Darcy so much, she hangs out with Jane and Bingley. To hear about Darcy. She deftly steers the conversation to get Bingley to tell anecdotes, (Jane sees what she's doing, of course.) It's… wonderful. Elizabeth was so obsessed with her own bizarre romance, she forgot how much she likes Bingley, his optimism, his kindness, Jane is so happy, they have such a lovely time, the three of them.

It would even be more perfect, if… you know. If there was a fourth.

Elizabeth invites Georgiana to lunch. Then overthinks it like crazy. What if it's overstepping? What if it's, like, marking her territory – cultivating a relationship with the sister – while the relationship is supposed to be CASUAL? Is it – something Caroline would do? (Oh the horror.)

Georgiana has a great time though. Her shyness, thawing. Timid smiles during salad, enthusiastic conversation at dessert. They go shopping. Elizabeth buys Georgiana something bright red. Night. Elizabeth feels so guilty she can't sleep. (Marking her territory. Something Caroline would do.) The next day, she confesses everything by text – the lunch, "was it overstepping," "I am so sorry," etc. Darcy's answer comes thirty minutes later.

** Sorry, in a meeting. I'm glad you had lunch. Very glad. **

A great weight is lifted.

\- X -

Darcy's coming back. Tonight, 6pm.

** Would you like me to come get you at the airport, Mr. Darcy? 😊 ** Elizabeth sends.

** Why, Miss Bennett, ** Darcy answers. ** I would certainly appreciate the gesture. **

Georgiana is coming too – but Darcy still wants Elizabeth to be there – Elizabeth wonders if it means Georgiana knows – about them – when she meets Darcy's sister at the airport, the answer is crystal clear: Georgiana, all smiles and awkward hugs. Darcy's plane is late, so the two women wait in a small depressing café in sublevel two, concrete pillars and low concrete ceiling and green neon ads, Elizabeth does not feel depressed at all, she's – you know. Anticipation and desire and stomach ache.

Georgiana, so friendly. So hungry for affection it hurts.

Then Darcy's plane is really really late.

A three hours delay. Elizabeth and Georgiana wait and wait, airport personnel is not helpful, and of course they cannot text Darcy – everything's up in the air.

Georgiana has to leave. Something important, going on at Pemberley, one of the Darcy siblings has to be present, Elizabeth forgets, sometimes, that Georgiana owns half of everything – Wickham did not forget, of course. "He was after money," Darcy said, ages ago. He did not explain further.

\- X -

Elizabeth waits.

An hour passes again. (Darcy's four hours late now.) Elizabeth would worry, but a nice woman in dark blue uniform with whom Elizabeth chatted earlier comes to tell her "that's it, the plane just landed, now there's a problem with custom."

Phone. ** I am so, so sorry about the delay ** Darcy has already written. ** Georgiana told me she had to leave. You should go too. We're still stuck in that plane – for God knows how long. **

Elizabeth hesitates. A lot. (Don't overthink it.)

** I'd rather wait ** she writes. ** I've invested all that time already – you know, sunk cost and everything. **

Send. She feels so nervous, her hands shaking a little. As Darcy does not answer in the next three nanoseconds (the cad,) she texts in a hurry: ** Unless you want me to leave, of course. **

A minute passes. ** Obviously, I will be glad if you stay. If it's no imposition. **

Elizabeth stares at that message for much too long. Waits five minutes, doesn't want to seem too eager, before sending, ** Then I will be here, casually waiting 😊 **

One minute later. ** I casually very much look forward to seeing you again, Elizabeth. **

** Doesn't feel grammatically correct, ** Elizabeth sends, a huge glass panel separating her from the luggage area, she will see him when he arrives, on the other side, he will ride down that escalator there on the left, a wave of people coming, from another plane, she hates them, hates them all.

** Who cares about grammar or meaning? ** is Darcy's answer.

** Oh, I am sure you do, ** Elizabeth sends. ** Don't tell me you're not a language snob. **

** You're right, I am. ** Then, ** Any pretext to casually despise people, as you know. **

** I am casually pacing the hall, waiting for you ** she non sequiturs. Then she adds: ** Impatiently. Anxiously. Choose your own synonyms. **

Silence.

Five minutes. Ten.

** We're out, ** he writes. ** Walking the labyrinth somewhere. Be there in – fifteen minutes, I suppose? **

Twenty minutes pass. The luggage area on the other side of the glass is a cursed land, where Darcy never appears. Elizabeth's heart jumps each time a tall, serious looking man with a dark coat comes into view.

Then one of those men is him.

He doesn't see her at first, he's far from alone of course – hundreds of people in that plane – then he walks to the baggage claim and he does spot her – she gives him a shy smile – on the other side of the glass - he does not smile back, but something in his eyes – he stares at her for a second - he's eaten by the crowd. Ten minutes again – getting his suitcase – and then he's out.

She's waiting for him near the concrete pillars. He walks to her directly, no words are needed, he takes her in his arms and they hold so tight - every pretense gone - Wickham and "casual" and awkwardness, none of it matters, it never did - everything's so clear.


	14. Naked

**Guys, I published a new Pride and Prejudice novella, called "Do you love me?" You can find it here:  
Laura-Moretti/e/B07B3W5Y9R/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1  
(The book was edited - not by me - by someone who knows what she's doing.)**

 **Also... This is the last chapter of Slices of Life. Thank you for all your great support, it was so wonderful. I am so grateful to you all. :) :)**

 **x-x-x-x-**

Elizabeth is waiting for him near the concrete pillars. He walks to her directly, no words are needed, he takes her in his arms and they hold so tight - every pretense gone - Wickham and "casual" and awkwardness, none of it matters, it never did - everything's so clear.

-xx-

In each other arms.

-xx-

"I have a meeting, here, in the airport," he explains, later, when they let go. "Tomorrow morning at 7. I thought I would spend the evening with you, then come back here tomorrow, but…"

Empty halls, people hurrying off. Almost midnight already.

"But, considering…" Looking at Elizabeth. Hesitant. "I thought I'd stay right here, in a hotel, if…" She is already smiling.

"… If you would stay with me."

-xx-

Inside the airport. The hotel, luxurious. Their room, on the 14th floor, everything's modern, clear, wood and metal, like Sweden, (the imaginary Sweden in Elizabeth's mind). Like Pemberley. They hold hands in the elevator, then it's not enough so Darcy let his suitcase fall and they kiss during 14 floors, Elizabeth is so happy (her back against the mirror,) also so scared, she feels fragile, as if everything could just vanish, as if it is not quite real.

The doors open, they both jump. (Darcy is nervous, she can tell.)

They walk to the door. "You should always come get me at the airport," he says.

She smiles. "I will."

"Is that a formal pledge?"

"Do you need it in writing?"

"Mrs. Reynolds will mail you the contract."

Keycard. They're in the room. It's big. It must cost a fortune – Elizabeth looks around, she's Cinderella. This is Darcy's world – her studio, it was hers – it's fine, she likes both, but – vulnerable, again.

He gets rid of his coat and jacket. Elizabeth watches him – twenty years ago, he would have worn a tie, she realizes – not now of course, not in the start-up scene – still, so, so strange. She's dating someone _formal_. A business man. This is – alien – Alice in Wonderland.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asks. (Oh yes, he's nervous.)

Thirty seconds later. Elizabeth is sitting on the bed. Darcy is on a chair. Both drinking glasses of water.

Elizabeth pours a little water on her fingers, just a little, and throws droplets on his white shirt.

Darcy, bewildered. "What – exactly are you doing?"

She does it again. "Your shirt is wet," she declares. "Better get rid of it."

He blushes. He actually, honest-to-God blushes. How could she ever think that man cold? He stands up, he does get rid of his shirt, his color, a little high, his voice, steady:

"The situation is clearly unbalanced. You are fully clothed."

Her turn to blush. (Silly – she initiated it – still.) He sees her embarrassment – but doesn't comment – she slides her top off, he's watching her silently.

"Your turn," she orders.

He doesn't obey – instead he leans down to kiss her – awkwardly, tenderly – she puts her arms around her neck, whispering, "You must be so tired," – "I am," he answers, before proceeding to divest her of her clothes – no reason she should not reciprocate – somewhere in the process Darcy succeeded to dim the lights (many modern sophisticated dimmers and switches), they take their time – then limbs and kisses and passion – planes leaving and landing in the dark – distant, muffled thunder on the other side of the double glazed window.

Silence.

"There is a law," Elizabeth breathes afterwards, laying in the darkness, in Darcy's arms. (Their legs, absurdly intertwined.) "No planes between 1 and 4 am – I think. To protect the nearby towns."

"U-hum," is Darcy's articulate answer, but maybe it rouses him from the sands of sleep, because he adds, "Tomorrow morning. I'll have the meeting, you stay in bed. Then I will come back and order breakfast."

"Most perfect plan I ever heard."

"Um." He sleeps.

Six. Darcy's alarm rings. Awfully early, Elizabeth thinks. It's pleasant though – pleasant and strange – to wake up in a strange room, in strange sheets, with a strange man – with this man. Hints of dawn outside. Planes. Reality's floating.

Darcy stirs, sits on the bed, his back to her. Elizabeth sits up too, she is seized by a wave of tenderness – she takes him in her arms, he leans back upon her chest – she kisses him everywhere, on the neck, on the shoulders, it's not sexual, it's – being half asleep, in love, not wanting him to leave – they stay unmoving for a few moments – another plane, roaring, Darcy turns in the relative darkness to try to look at her – everything just shifted, Elizabeth knows. The music of their morning just changed drastically because of her – everything turned more intimate, more real.

"I am sorry," she breathes. "About everything. What I said in Hunsford Pub – the texts – my attitude – you know."

Silence on the other side. Then, "It's cruel, what you are doing. Telling me this just before my meeting."

Elizabeth doesn't know if he's joking or not. His voice is a little hoarse, but he just woke up, so she apologizes in a whisper – they kiss, he showers, he leaves.

-xx-

The sun rises.

Planes.

Elizabeth cannot sleep. She rises, she showers, she gets dressed. She's nervous – she goes for coffee downstairs in the lobby, Darcy is there, talking with a man in a private small conference room, behind a glass door. His back to her, thank God – he'd think she was stalking him – maybe she is. Elizabeth stays there standing in the hall for a few seconds before realizing there's a coffee machine in their room – she feels dumb – a text.

Darcy.

** I am the one who should be apologizing. What I said that night in the pub was – unforgivable – I don't know what came into me. **

How is he doing this? Elizabeth looks discreetly. In the conference room, the man, showing something on his laptop. Darcy, pretending to look at it, casually putting his phone back on the table.

It feels like she's spying, like she's cheating. She runs back to the elevator, she runs back to the room. She sits down.

A text. Darcy.

** I wanted to apologize a thousand times. But I also wanted you to forget all about it, so I didn't dare raise the topic. **

Elizabeth hands are shaking. She doesn't know how she should answer, serious, light-hearted.

A text. Darcy.

** I think we should talk. We never really did. About what I said in that pub – some of it is still valid – but I'd rather t **

The text stops there. Elizabeth closes her eyes – imagines the conference room, Darcy sending the text by mistake – the guy turning to him – Darcy having to pretend to listen – he had no answer from her – three texts and no answer, certainly he believes she's still sleeping, but – the mere idea that he could be waiting – it makes her sick – except she doesn't know what to write – apart from the obvious – but the obvious would be throwing herself at his mercy – she thought she was brave – but clearly -

-xx-

He comes back ten minutes later. Finds her sitting on the bed, her phone on her lap, very pale.

He sits beside her. She tries to smile.

"That must have been quite the productive meeting."

"I am an expert at nodding at all the right times."

"Your text," she asks, still going for a smile – it doesn't really work. "The last one. 'I'd rather…' I'd rather what?"

"I'd rather talk to you in person."

He takes her hands in his. She waits.

"What I said in the pub that night," he whispers, finally. "When I told you – how I fell in love with you – how it drove me crazy. How I thought about you, all the time. It's still true."

Elizabeth cannot talk. Cannot look at him.

"Thank you," she breathes, at last.

New pause. He laughs. (Not a real laugh.) "Not exactly what I was expecting. But – still better than, you know – last time."

"I was such a fool," Elizabeth explains in a strangled voice, "I almost missed something great, something beautiful, except I didn't, thanks to you, thanks to your obstinacy, to your… to your love," she continues, tears in her eyes, for an unexplained reason – then she is terrified again. "I – I didn't miss it, right?"

His voice is strained, too. "You didn't."

"I am sorry," she breathes, after a while. "I am so – so bad at this. I know my reaction is underwhelming…"

"It's fine," he whispers. "I will take it."

-xx-

"Are you out of your senses, Lizzie? Moving out – for a man?"

Her father, pacing his study – a tiny room, at the far end of the Bennet apartment – Elizabeth spent a lot of time there, reading, daydreaming in the battered green armchair, while her dad was on the computer – a military alliance, Elizabeth and her father against the world.

Now – the alliance is broken.

"Explain this to me, please," Mr. Bennet asks. "You are going to live in Pemberley?"

"In a student apartment," Elizabeth explains. Her voice, steady. (Practicality, rationality: the best way to convince her father.) "The rent is very low," she continues, "and Mary can have the studio at last. It's her turn – you know Lydia and Kitty are driving her crazy…"

 _(Just this morning:_

 _Kitty, in a sing-song voice: "Wickham was clocked and locked!"_

 _Lydia: "Shut up you're so mean! I hate you!"_

 _Mary: desperately trying to study musicology.)_

Her father doesn't care one straw about Mary. "Nice try, Lizzie, but you are not fooling me. Your mother tells me there's a man – Pemberley's owner – is he the reason?"

Practicality. Rationality.

"Edward and Madeline have offered me a job – it's better pay, more responsibilities – it's related to my field, and now that the Gardiner's Foundation is in Pemberley – with no commute, I can spend more time studying. But," Elizabeth adds, after a pause. "Yes. There's a man. And yes, it's about him. I mean, it's also about him."

"That is just wrong," her father protests, pacing the study again – a feat, because the room is awfully narrow. "That is – a terrible mistake, Lizzie, a strategic error, as well as a moral one…"

Elizabeth is getting flustered. "Dad, why – how come you never said that to Jane? When she began to date Bingley – or now – when she's practically moved in at Netherfield already…"

"Because Jane sincerely loves Bingley! And – I have to admit – sure, his constant optimism is seriously grating, but still, he's a good guy…"

"So – what? Jane won't seduce a man for his money, but you think I would?"

"Yes!"

Elizabeth is stunned.

"Sweetie – I didn't mean – I phrased that wrong," her father stammers when he sees her expression. "It's just – you are more ambitious than your sister. Which is good! You are smart, you think things through, but…"

Elizabeth massages her forehead. So that is what her father thinks of her. Because, she realizes, he doesn't know her, not that well. Because she is really a coward. Because – (practicality, rationality.) Because she hides her emotions.

"Well, no. I am not with Darcy for his money," she says, her voice slightly trembling. "I… I love him."

That doesn't go well. Her father goes full cynical mode. He accuses her of being like Lydia, silly and stupid, Elizabeth doesn't really listen, so many thoughts – all at the same time. Things she vaguely knew, things she explained to Darcy even, but they didn't – they didn't really _compute_ before – yes, feelings scare her, or, at least, expressing them does, and this is her dad's fault – this is her parents' marriage's fault – feelings are Mrs. Bennet's realm, and she hands them so badly – damn, I am screwed up, Elizabeth thinks, Mr. Bennet is still ranting – Elizabeth has her second revelation – her father will miss her – terribly – and this discussion – that what it is all about, really, and her third revelation is – obviously – if she loves Darcy, she should tell _him_ , not her dad.

"I am sorry," she interrupts. "I have to go."

-xx-

So she tells Darcy. Through text. (Darcy is back in Sweden, for three days only.) Then she tells him face to face, when she goes get him at the airport – and their night after that – well – not unpleasant.

-xx-

Walking in the street, leisurely. She and Darcy. Holdings hands.

(They're holding hands all the time, except in Pemberley, or in Pemberley's vicinity. Darcy has to look respectable there.)

The movers have come. Everything Elizabeth owns, in a small truck, direction Pemberley, direction a rather large one room apartment, white walls, huge windows. The movers have to stop somewhere first, so – she and Darcy – they have the afternoon free – time, stretching before them.

The sun is out. It's pretty cold. A few black buds, showing on sycamores' branches. Blackbirds. People hurrying toward the subway.

"Look," Elizabeth smiles. "There. That café. It's where I sat when I sent you the text. The first one, the one that started everything. It was raining…"

"This is a pretty pathetic looking place," Darcy comments.

"Oh my God you are such a snob."

Challenge and amusement in Darcy's eyes. He leads her to the café, they sit down (on the patio – under the awning,) they order expressos, they're awful, so bitter, Darcy smiles victoriously, point proven, he raises his tiny cup to her with a smirk.

The sun is almost warm – and this moment – Elizabeth will remember it forever – both moments, the beginning and the end, the first text and the really bad coffee – she turns to Darcy and kisses him on the cheek, on the jaw, she puts her head on his shoulder – that look on his face – that's the one he generally gets, after her tender gestures – disbelief – like he's not used to affection – maybe he's not – considering his childhood.

"So why did you do it?" he asks, after a while. "Why did you send that first text?"

"Bored – and still angry at you, I bet."

Darcy, unfazed. "You're such a romantic, it warms my heart."

"Well – actually – it was more complicated than that," Elizabeth realizes, after some thought. "It was more… You were so fervent, when you talked to me – I was… curious. At the beginning, I was leading you on," she says, quickly (to bury her sins.)

A memory of old pain, flitting in his eyes. "I know."

A pause. He takes her hand again. A few seconds pass before she continues, in a low voice, "I was looking for passion, I suppose. I just didn't understand it at the time."

It is dangerous, what she just admitted. She feels – naked. But Darcy simply answers:

"I would ask that, starting now, all passion of a romantic nature would be directed towards me."

"Fine."

"Is that a formal pledge?"

"Yes," Elizabeth answers.

He holds her hand even tighter. "Good. Well." A pause. "You got what you were looking for, of course." He hesitates. "You realize that, right?"

They're not looking at each other.

"Yes."

"Excellent. As for your side of the deal…"

"Do you need it in writing?"

"Mrs. Reynolds will mail you the contract."


End file.
